


I'll Fly Away

by roxymissrose



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose





	I'll Fly Away

2006 challenge for SV Historical  
Many thanks to Treetracer, and to Tabaqui for all their help and encouragement.

_I wanted to tell a story about a time in our history that was painful and hopeful and horrible all at once. This story ends on a note that can be interpreted anyway you like._

__  
_It was the kind of heat that sucked sweat out of you and left it on your skin to turn into a thin coating of grease. Pete groaned and rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. It wasn’t the kind of heat you got in New York._  


_New York got hot all right. Hot as a mother but at least you could sit out on the fire escape and catch a little breeze. At least it rained and the temperature dropped some._

_Mississippi. Mississippi was just hotter then hell and roasted you inside and out and grew mold between your toes._

_The fan that came with the room was a piece of shit. The damn thing sounded like a helicopter—whup-whup-whup-all fucking day long and didn’t move air worth a shit.  
He held his hand in front of it—barely a stir of air tickled his palm. Just a damn noise maker._

_He was striped down to his shorts and undershirt and sweat still poured off him every time he moved. He flipped the flat hard bag they called a pillow to the dry side—the side that was slightly drier, anyway and looked down at his body stretched out on the bed. Light coming through the tatty Venetian blinds turned him into slices of hot wet and grubby Ross._

_God damn it._  
What the hell was he doing?  
He must have been crazy.

**New York**

“No. There is no discussion about this. Have you seen the news? Do you read the papers? They’re killing boys like you down there. No. You are not going.” His mother sent his sister to her room and Pete groaned inside and prepared himself for a fight

He pushed back from the table and cast his eyes towards his pop. “Help me out Pop. Tell her. It’s never going to get better if ‘boys’ like me don’t so something.”

His mother shot him a dark look and he went over to sit in the open window. He frowned as he tried to couch his arguments in terms Ma could understand.

“Ma—didn’t Granddad leave Kansas to come here and make a better life? He struck out into unknown waters but he did it because he wanted his family to have a better life. Same as Poppa Ross—they all wanted more, a better life for their families.”

Pop nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”

“Look at you, Ma, you’re a clerk in the mayor’s office and Pop’s a partner in a law firm. You couldn’t have done that in Kansas. Sis goes to a mixed school, that couldn’t have happened in Kansas. Heck, he probably would have been shot for even thinking about those things.”

She huffed and turned away from him, started to clear the dishes off the table and said “And that’s why you don’t need to go down there. We came up here for a better life and you want to go down south and lose yours?”

“Abbie!” Pop said. “The boy is trying to do something good, something worthwhile. Most boys his age are only thinking about themselves. You should be proud.”

“That’s too simple. He will go down there and he will be killed. You put that idea out of your head, Pete, you hear?”

Course he didn’t pay attention to Ma—it was enough that Pop was cool with it. He loaded his old car with everything he could think of he might need—he was leaving civilization after all. He had a Coleman cooler full of baloney sandwiches and RC. It was going to be a long drive and he wasn’t going to have a lot of places to stop once he hit Delaware...

Everybody had come over to see him off. The whole church came out, the whole block came out and he was being treated like he was some kind of saint or something instead of a college kid with more—what, anger then sense?

He stood around and smiled and nodded and rocked to the slaps on his back. He held a warm bottle of beer in his hand and sipped and grinned and wished this shit was all over. The Temps blasted in the background and the kids were dancing. They looked hot—he moved a little himself, rocking his hips to the beat before he laughed and jumped down the steps and walked down the little alley that lead to the back of the house.

Out back, he leaned against the wall, fished a pack of Luckys out of his pocket and lit one up with the trusty old Zippo. Dad’s lighter.

He held it in his hand, turned the warm smooth metal over and ran a finger over the engraving. His thumb rested on the panther’s head engraved on a shield at the front of the lighter, ‘come out fighting’ it said under the shield, two fingers rested on ‘761st Tank Battalion’ engraved on the back—Dad knew about sacrificing for the greater good, all right. Those years in France—Germany—they hadn’t been easy, but he did what he had to do, Dad understood. He felt—oddly proud. Dad trusted him. Gave him this lighter and that seemed more important then the party or anything—a footstep behind him pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up and felt the world shudder to a stop.

“Larry.”

“Pete. I didn’t get an invite.”

“Well, Larry, you kind of made your feeling clear on the matter when you hauled off and smacked me one….”

Larry moved closer, and he was frowning, his forehead creased, his nostrils flared and he was still mad as hell. Pete took a deep drag and exhaled loudly, considered backing up just in case Larry felt like going for it again.

Larry reached out and pulled the cigarette from his hand and took a puff himself. He spoke and the smoke seeped out of his mouth and nose. “You just walking away from all of us, hunh?”

“Fuck, Larry, it’s not like I’m not coming back, for God’s sake. A few weeks—a few weeks in Mississippi, that’s it. I’ll be home; I’ll have some stories to tell and some sharecroppers will vote, and maybe we can actually *be* a part of this God-damn country finally.”

Pete was breathing heavily by the time he stopped and Larry was standing next to him. He looked scared and resigned.

“Gimme that fucking cigarette back.”

Pete handed it back, and looked around quickly—he shot forward and grabbed Larry by the back of the neck and kissed him. Larry tried to pull back but Pete pushed on and finally, he relaxed under Pete’s grip, and turned into the kiss.

Pete stepped back and instead of that soft creamy look that usually softened Larry’s face after a kiss, he looked angrier than he’d been, his cheeks bright red against his high yellow skin.

“That’s your solution to everything.”

“What? What’re you talking about,” he said impatiently, and ground the butt into the gravel until it disintegrated.

“Pete, some day, you’re going to have to face a problem instead of…of screwing it into submission. This isn’t going to work for you forever.”

Larry walked away. “Wait-come back to the party with me!” Pete called after him.

“So we can hold hands and tell everyone how much we’ll miss each other? Maybe you introduce me to your folks, and we can—“ his voice broke. “Bye Pete. Be safe. Don’t take any chances.”

He walked away and Pete stared after him, scowling—angry that he hadn’t given in. Larry just didn’t get it. He didn’t realize how important this was. Dad was the only one who really seemed to understand what he was trying to do. Fuck that. He’d be back in a few weeks and Larry’d be begging for him to come back.

* * * *

Pete had been prepared. He knew that outside of his home state, things would get worse than walking into Macy’s.

They got worse.

Northerners were generally politely racist but these folks…no one had to tell him twice not to let the sun set on his black ass in Delaware—in Maryland—in Virginia. Up north there were places you just didn’t go. Everyone knew it. If you wanted a sandwich you went to Meyer’s, you didn’t go to Gorman’s—you just knew.

Down south—you didn’t have to just know. They were damn happy to tell you so. The No Colored signs weren’t the first he’d seen—but for some reason they were the harshest. With images of southern trees so fresh in his mind, those signs took on the kind of warnings that crazy kings got from weird hags in the dark of night--portents and omens of a bad kind.

His little Coleman cooler saved his life--he’d like to have starved otherwise. A list of places and folks willing to feed and let a room out to a poor black boy kept him from sleeping in his car a good bit of the way and for that he was thankful to the folks at home. It galled him, not being able to go where he wanted—but he wasn’t trying to end up on the side of the road somewhere between Virginia and Mississippi either.

For the most part, folks treated him good when they found out his purpose. There were always the ones who chastised him for trying to upset the cart—afraid to have the white man really notice the folks under his nose.

Pete tried to have patience with those types but it was hard. Why couldn’t they see it was time to change? By the time he and people like him were done--this country would have arms open for all it’s children—segregation would be a thing of the past and racism would be dead and forgotten.

He drove along the dark country road and sang along with the radio. Life for his sister’s kids would be a whole different thing then life for him…anyway that was what he told himself and believed as he drove deeper into the night and deeper into the South.

* * * *

_He got up from the bed and went over to the sink in the corner of the room. He was absurdly grateful for that fucked up grimy little sink. He ran some water into his hands—he could smell it before it even got close to his nose…he splashed his face, and rubbed water over his head and neck, wrinkling his nose at the sulfur smell. God._

_It was like being in hell…he couldn’t wait to go the fuck back home. He felt…alone. Big, wide aching alone…He walked back to the bed and stopped at the Coleman cooler—pulled a nearly cold bottle of beer from it’s watery depths and let the bottle drain against the back of his neck. Maybe before he hit the road tomorrow, he’d see if the Store had any ice for sale. Lots of ice. He rubbed the bottle over his forehead and pressed it against his mouth before flipping off the top with the bottle opener screwed to the door frame of the room._

_Fuck._

_He took a deep gulp._

_Fuck. He pulled his undershirt off and dropped it on the floor. He stank, the shirt stank…he eyed the sink again and thought about washing up. The bed was damp, his shorts were damp, he was wet from water and sweat and the fucking fan was still mocking him with it’s fucking whup whup whup and no fucking breeze…he sighed loud and deep, so long that his breath caught and he choked for a moment and he’d be god-damned if he was crying. He gulped again, frowned when he realized the bottle was empty. How many did he have left?_

* * * *

  
**Mississippi**

“Every body settle down now—quiet--”

The crowd looked around at the chatty little group in the shadow of the loft. Someone needed to remind those white boys that they were in a church, a gaggle of old ladies whispered between themselves—their scandalized tone made Pete smirk.

Quite a few people stared at the young white kids openly. They didn’t spend a lot of time socializing with white folk. If they weren’t cleaning up after them, or feeding them or watching their kids—they didn’t have anything to do with them. It was odd, pale faces in the pews. A few people moved closer. "Is it true that they smell like wet dogs…go see…."

Pete watched the fascinated faces around him and felt superior. These country cousins had no idea. They just didn’t know. He had experience of dealing with whites and he knew what they thought, how they acted. They held no mystery for him.

He leaned back against the pew and tried to look like he was an old hand at this.

* * * *

So far it’d been quiet as a grave and twice as uneventful. They drove out to the little shacks and farms along dirt roads and talked to folks, tried to get them to come into the church to get registered. Sometimes it made his head pound with frustration. Those brown eyes turned up to his, full of kindness, those heads nodding and mouths full of agreement, 'yes, suh, yes, yes, we’ll come of course—yes—' and the minute they were gone those little pieces of paper begging folks to take the reins to their lives in their own hands went into the stove. Eyes shut down again and mouths turned hard and sometimes they didn’t even wait for them to leave before they threw the paper away.

Sometimes.

Other times, a light went on inside those folks, a light like—Moses probably saw when God set that bush on fire…or something like that, he really should have paid more attention in church. Anyway, it was enough to make him get up and drive to the church instead of the interstate.

* * * *

Assignments for the day had been handed out and Pete and another guy, local, were paired to drive out to the airport and pick up the newest arrivals, a couple of rich college kids from Kansas, oddly enough. He was looking forward to meeting them, curious about Kansas and what it was like there now. He looked at the card with their names, Logan and Kent…he sincerely hoped they weren’t going to be pains in the ass. Some of those rich kids didn’t get it. The worst were the colored ones with money—shit, he’d happily lynch their asses himself. He said as much to the driver, who laughed out loud. He was a good looking kid, chocolate skinned and muscular. Pete had to stop himself watching the muscles on his arms slide and bunch as he drove…yeah. He was tired of Mary Palm and her daughters. But he wasn’t trying to get himself killed for being a queer either. He glanced at the kid, and he was smiling at him. Not enough for Pete to take a chance though. Not yet. Besides he was a little more partial to bright boys than brown.

* * * *

They were waiting outside the terminal, two tall and gangly white boys, looking about with lost puppy expressions. Nate, the driver cut a look at him and snorted, and he tried not to grin. Yeah. Had to be them. One of the kids had the ugliest ass glasses he’d ever seen on any person perched on his nose. It was like the kid was trying to hide something—like the fact he had a face--those glasses were huge. Without them big black crooked frames he probably wouldn’t be bad looking at all—for a white boy.

Pete caught up with them, “Excuse me. Snick?”

The white kid with the glasses exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since Kansas. He shoved the big frames up his nose and grinned. “Yeah, that’s us. We’re sure glad to see you.”

Pete nodded and grabbed for their suitcases, had a bit of a tugging match with the bare faced kid. “It’s okay, son, really. Just get in the car. Folks are looking, okay?”

The kid blushed like a stoplight and Glasses shoved him into the back seat of the sprung out old Buick. Along the way, they got around to introducing themselves and Nate explained a bit about what the schedule was for the next few days. “Ain’t gone lie to ya, ya’ll are gonna hit the floor running, and hardly take a breath. We got a lot to do, don’t have a whole lot of time to do it in.”

“Dig,” Pete seconded. No one coddled his black ass when he set down here and was no one about to coddle their asses either.

The new boys got settled into the Motel, a few doors down from Pete. Nate came around for him at dinnertime, and he herded them into the back of the Buick again, and off they went, dinner was at one of the church sister’s houses. Pete was feeling pretty good about that—there was sure to be fried chicken, fish, greens, black eye-peas and rice and all kinds of cake and pie-- in his experience, these women could cook up a storm.

* * * *

And there was always the exception to the rule, Pete told himself and tried to quell his noisy stomach with cornbread filled with mysterious greasy lumps and half decent lemonade. Those boys, Pete thought. They were pretty damn brave because he knew they were eating stuff they’d never seen in their whole lives, prepared with a lack of skill that was truly breath taking. No wonder Nate had dropped them and ran, the bastard.

Shit, Pete thought, watching the boys. You couldn’t pay him enough to eat chittlins, and the one kid was digging in like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. Damn. Pete tried not to screw his lip up but Lord—he wasn’t eating anything a pig shit out of and that *included* stuffing it with who knows what and calling it sausage. He thought maybe those Nation of Islam boys had a point, pig was a nasty animal.

Glasses—the name had just stuck in Pete’s head--looked a little pale…paler, as he watched the other boy shovel in what looked like dirty rags, and just kind of picked at his plate himself. Sister Spraggs watched the kid with the scary appetite wolf his dinner and smiled from ear to ear. Dang. He must have a cast iron stomach and no taste buds, Pete guessed and sipped at his lemonade.

 

Nate swung by to pick them up after dinner and after a flaming tongue lashing from Pete that he had a nerve to laugh his ass off through, asked did they want to go to the local and Pete said yeah—and for some reason he lost his damn mind and asked the white boys along. Glasses begged off, thank God, tired he said but the other one eagerly agreed.

Pete frowned. He was like some kind of giant puppy, the kind that was way too eager and flopped all over and that made him kind of dangerous to himself, he figured. Hoped like hell it wasn’t going to be dangerous for him too.

That’s how he ended up standing next to the only white person in the Royal, clutching his bottle of beer, bopping his head to the beat and grinning like a loon. It was great to watch the crowd, but he kept his ass glued to the sidelines with the big white boy.

“Kent, you just let me know when you’re ready to go, you hear?” Pete shouted up in his ear. He’d be damn if he stood on tiptoe to talk to the kid—they grew them pretty damn big in Kansas.

“Clark,” he yelled back. “Call me Clark—Pete, right?”

Pete nodded and was distracted when a light kid with a big brown natural and freckles scattered across amazing cheekbones walked by. He liked that look, Afro’s were nice and soft and…

Nice. Very nice.

He glanced at Clark quickly, but Clark was staring at the gyrating figures on the floor with an open look of fascination on his face. His eyes sparkled, he had this cute bright smile, and sharp teeth, Pete thought, bet they’d feel good on his—he swallowed. Whoa, what the heck—he better derail that train of thought right quick--

“D’you dance, Kent? “

Clark shook his head emphatically. “Nope, and you should thank me that I’m not out there.” and Pete laughed, damn grateful to think of something else besides biting or licking and Kent…

 

The Royal was different from clubs Pete was used to at home, like someone heard all about fancy northern clubs and tried to grow their own—the walls were painted in bright colors, silhouettes of dancing figures, strobe lights were pulsing through their color changes, red, blue, yellow and back, red blue yellow and back, sound seemed to bounce off the roof and shatter over the crowd and voices battled with the music. Smoke rolled over their heads like fog, and bodies pushed and jostled against them…Pete liked the unpolished enthusiasm of the backwoods club.

The DJ set the arm on the turntable and stepped up to the front of a small stage with the microphone. “How’s everybody!” he yelled, the crowd yelled back and he said, “I can’t hear you,” and they rattled the tin roof of the Royal.

He went on, voice dropping into a smooth cadence, kind of like the DJ’s of the fifties, “I’m not the imitator, not the duplicator, you know I’m the mother--” he held two fingers over his mouth for a beat before going on—"originator—and I’m back on the scene with the record machine…” Pete shook his head.

The crowd went wild and echoed the DJ and Pete let the crowd rock him along. He grinned at Kent and Kent gave him one of those heart-stopping grins in return. God damn, he had some nice juicy lips…fuck.

He really was losing his natural mind and he’d only had one beer…he needed to get away from him before he did something stupid. Right. Past time for another beer. He reached down to adjust himself real quick and nudged Kent in the ribs, jerked his chin towards the bar, and Kent nodded.

Pete made it over to the bar and the yellow boy with the natural was there, looking right at him. Pete looked right back. The boy’s bright eyes gleamed like stars in the florescent bar light, he smiled wide and winked, earning a grin in turn from Pete. Clark disappeared from Pete’s mental landscape with a whoosh.

He was falling into whiskey-brown eyes and feeling a little warm when it hit him. How very long it’d been since he’d been with anybody. God, he missed hands on him, a mouth on him. His eyes kept going to full lips and he wondered, hoped…The kid headed to the exit and after making sure that no one was paying him any mind and as soon as was probably safe, Pete followed.

Out in the dark, beyond the parking lot and the one spot light trying to illuminate the lot and the entrance, deep in a thick ring of shrubs Pete found out first the boy’s name was Alvin and second that it was possible to bite a hole right through a shirt sleeve, if it was filling your mouth.

He was pumping into Alvin’s mouth slow and easy, enjoying that good old ‘after it’ feeling as Alvin licked ‘round, light and easy on his softening dick. Pete pulled the sleeve out of his cotton dry mouth, and groaned as he yanked his shirt back over his head. “Damn, boy that was so good,” he whispered. Alvin stood and leaned against Pete, and he liked that Alvin fit right under his chin. Few of his partners could. It was a feeling he thought he’d like to get used to. “Hey, you know what, let me get rid of my ride and you come back to my room with me.”

“Sure, sounds good,” Alvin said in that soft accent Pete was beginning to find kind of sexy. He smiled and wiped a long slim hand across his mouth and Pete grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulled him close. He kissed him, wet, sloppy and hard before letting him go.

They stepped out of the bushes and headed back to the parking lot and there stood Kent, all tall and white and wide. And looking a little lost. Pete felt a twinge of guilt but hell, Kent wasn’t his responsibility. He whistled and waved at him.

When he saw Pete he jerked half a wave back and blushed violently. Pete watched with fascination as the red bloomed in his cheeks and rushed up to his hairline, and down his neck. Pete wondered idly how far down that blush ran.

“Ah, Nate said it was time to go—told me to get you but I couldn’t uh, find you….”

Pete said, “Tell him I’m walking back. I’ll meet you guys tomorrow.”

Clark blushed deeper, still looking at Alvin and Pete and then Alvin again before finally he nodded and walked away.

* * * *

_He dropped flat on the bed, rubbed the bottom of the bottle across his ribs, but it was almost already warm. He sucked a bit from the bottle and set it down on the floor next to the bed._

_He’d load the trunk, gas up and hit the road before sunrise and with any luck be in Georgia by late noon. He rubbed his hand carefully over his face and draped an arm over his head. Skin touched skin and instantly bloomed sweat--Back to New York; it was all he could think of. Away from this, away from folks who wanted him dead and had the right to kill him just because he was black, away from broken bodies and spirits…way from crazy white boys and stuff that made no sense and made his head hurt. Away from boys who left you holding your stupid fucking heart in your hands…._

* * * *

Somehow Kent became his shadow, they were paired most times and Pete wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. Kent seemed to assume that just because they got paired up a few times, he and Pete were friends and Pete didn’t make friends like that. It annoyed him a bit but what could he do? He needed some kind of keeper, to keep his puppy ass in one piece.

Kent drew the people in, for sure. That kid radiated sincerity like the Easter Bunny. Old ladies and babies loved him, and those big green eyes and that goofy pointed puppy tooth grin almost always bought them the time to try and educate folks about voting. They made a beeline to Kent’s table when they did sign-ups and Kent was not afraid to work. He washed dishes and floors and hauled garbage, tutored at the School-- nothing was beneath him and everyone was interesting to him.

Respect, that was it…he gave everybody the same respect, white, colored, it didn’t matter to him. Sure, folks said it all the time but Kent—it was like he couldn’t even see the differences. He was okay. They ended up shoulder to shoulder so many times that Pete started to think of Kent as—well, his pet in a way. He began to look forward to seeing his grin in the morning; sometimes that grin was the only thing that got him to open his eyes and face the day. He kind of liked the mornings Kent would walk in without a by your leave and roust him out of bed, scold him for sleeping late. Pete always cursed bitterly when he did it and would throw him out of his room, but it’d take him a few good minutes to stop grinning like an idiot after the boy left. Hell, lunch wasn’t lunch unless he could argue with Kent over it. Plus it made him laugh to see folk’s faces when he yelled at the white boy.

* * * *

Pete shut his room door and lit up before heading around to back side of the Motel where the phone was. It was past time to check in at home and let Ma holler at him and then fuss over him. He rolled the lighter between his fingers. He felt the need to talk to Pop too, just kind of catch up and connect with home.

He stopped when he saw Kent was using the phone, kind of hunched over it and shielding his mouth somewhat. He looked upset, maybe fighting with a girl back home. Now there was a kid probably knee deep in pussy—shame. He thought about leaving, but some deeply nosy part of him made him eavesdrop. He knew it was wrong—but he wanted to know if what Kent had to say to a girl was different than any lines he had. He was always ready to try a new one….

“No, Lex, I can’t come back yet. No! Don’t fly down here. I mean it—please. That’s—do you understand that’s just blackmail--I do love you, damn it…” he hissed it into the phone. “No. I’m sorry I didn’t mean—Please! Lex--Lex!” He slammed the phone on the hook and yelled “God damn it!” He winced and swallowed and looked up and caught Pete’s eyes and knew that Pete had heard.

Yeah. Pete was pretty sure Lex was not a girl’s name.

Looked like Kent had more in common with him then he’d thought. Pete considered letting it go, ignoring the whole incident, but Kent looked too scared, poor kid…he walked over, reached up to put a hand on Kent’s shoulder, squeezed it for a second before dropping it. “I understand, I had nearly the same conversation before I left New York.”

Kent nodded, a fraction of a movement, his lips were still pale and he opened his mouth to speak, “I…it’s not what you think…” He looked at Pete with every bit of the pain he was feeling in his eyes.

“Yes it is.” Pete shrugged. “My ‘friend’ didn’t want me to come down here either. I know how you’re feeling.” He emphasized ‘my ‘friend’. Color rushed into Clark face and even though hurt still darkened his eyes, a shy smile curved his lips.

“Yeah?” He said softly and Pete nodded, “Exactly. Come on. Let’s get breakfast, before we’re out of time, okay?”

Clark gave him a look of gratitude, and for the first time Pete felt more than a vague sense of arousal around Kent, he felt his heart stutter. Lex, he thought whoever you are, you are a king size asshole for letting him walk around by himself.

* * * *

He was distracted with Alvin when he came to his room that night. The sex was good but….

Alvin sighed as he pulled his pants back on. “So, is this over?”

Pete tried to think of something to say. He wanted to say it wasn’t, that he wanted Alvin to come back and that he cared for him but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth and that was probably a good thing.

Alvin washed his face and rinsed his mouth. He picked out his natural and came back to sit on the end of the bed and put his shoes on. His movements were unhurried and not angry, just, kind of resigned. He told Pete it was okay. He liked him. He understood. If whatever it was he wanted didn’t work out, call him. No strings, right.

Pete watched Alvin walk out to the road. He heard a sound to his left and looked down the walk, He wasn’t sure, but he thought Clark’s door was just closing.

Pete stood there for a minute, debating. Yes? No? He seemed to be pretty wrapped up in that Lex guy. Shit, he was being stupid. Thinking about that boy was a waste of time; he could tell a guy ridden by obsession when he saw it. Besides, he didn’t do white boys.

He went back in the room and carefully closed his door.

* * * * 

It had been one hell of a long week, alternating between boredom and anger and boredom and fear and the kids needed some kind of outlet. It was time for a party, time to let loose a little and just be a kid again.

Nate was parked in his girlfriend’s yard, and Pete was parked on the Buick, spread-eagled on his back on the warm hood, blowing smoke rings through each other for the benefit of the little group of girls, staring hopefully at him, whispering and giggling. He was kind of exotic in a way, from New York and all. He didn’t mind the attention, but he’d much prefer it from one of those guys sitting on the porch steps, drinking that liquid rat poison they called moonshine. He rolled to his side and tossed the butt into the dirt. One of the girls came up and asked Pete if he wanted a beer.

“Stay right here, honey, I’ll get you one.” She smiled and winked and strolled off to the house.

He loved the South. Everyone was so accommodating. He loved the South, he loved house parties, he loved the Buick. He loved the crappy, yard-grown weed he was toking, he loved the dirt—he loved every damn thing. He loved that fucking house, ‘bout as big as a breadbox, and stuffed to the rafters with young people celebrating the fact that they weren’t dead yet. Music made the ground vibrate and anything you could bottle was being passed around.

A matchstick thin joint came his way, Pete was about to pass when Nate came up and introduced him to his cousin, Ricky. “Ya’ll got something in common, he’s from New York too.”

He was huge but yellow, and Pete was a little high and a little horny. “Hey Ricky,” he grinned. What the hell, he’d talk to the guy; he’d find out in a minute what his flavor was.

Small talk ensued, Pete and Ricky got on well, very well. They had a lot in common. They liked the same music, bought their clothes at the same store, liked the same brand of beer, of smokes, Ricky liked getting fucked and Pete liked fucking so the evening progressed in a more than positive way, as far as he was concerned.

 

Around two in the morning, Pete and Nate were about ready to head back to the Motel, Ricky passed Pete his number and Pete thanked him warmly and had every intention of tossing it as soon as he was able. Nate smiled and Pete figured Nate just might empty a shotgun in him if he had the slightest idea what Pete’d been up to with his baby cousin out in the dark.

In the distance Pete heard the muffled roar of a truck motor and would have played it off but for the sudden hyper awareness of everyone around him…

He could make out lights bouncing up and down way back down the lane and then darkness but the motor kept running, coming closer.

Now the music stopped. It was dead quiet…and now the lights cut off and it was pitch black out in the woods…the truck squeaked and bumped down the lane, slow as a funeral procession…no one spoke, but Pete heard metallic clicks in the pitch black…he tried to tell himself he was ready…fuck that was a lie, he didn’t want to die in the woods with a bunch of people he didn’t really know…

It was over, the truck was past. Lights came back up but the music was dead, the mood gone. Fear and loathing hung in the air. Anger with no place to go bubbled in his chest.

It was three before he got back to the motel and he was strung out, shaky still in the aftermath of so much fear and rage mixed and battling in him.

Clark was sitting in the dark, head down on crossed arms resting on his knees, sitting right in front of his door like some giant puppy, lost and finally found its way home and Pet was instantly furious. Clark lifted his head, and stared.

“Where were you, I was worried--”

“Get from out my door.”

Clark shifted to the side without standing. “What’s wrong Pete?”

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong,” he laughed. “What isn’t wrong!” He stared down into Clark’s face, washed out and whiter in the dark. “Maybe you think I like you or we’re friends or something—we’re not. I hardly know you and you don’t know me. We’re here for a job. I’m here for a job—you’re here to try and dump some white race guilt, I guess. Well, leave me out of your plea for absolution, all right?” He tried to slam his door behind him but Clark was there, Pete turned and planted a hand in the middle of his chest and shoved, hard. He wanted to hurt him.

Clark didn’t even budge. The fucker just stood, and Pete shoved again, harder, and still—nothing.’ Am I that fucked up?’

“Get out mother fucker—get out of my room, get out of my life—get the fuck out of Mississippi, damn you!” Clark looked so hurt that Pete wanted to slap him.

“What happened tonight? Who did something to you?”

Pete growled but Clark pressed on. “You’re not a mean person Pete; it’s not in you.”

Pete laughed. What the fuck did he think? No one knew what was in him…it wasn’t nice and it was high time he knew. “Fuck you, you and your people, they all can kiss my black ass,” Pete turned and dropped his pants, “black—ass.”

He heard Clark’s footsteps heading to the door. Good he thought. Leave me the fuck alone...and the door slammed shut and Clark was back.

“First of all…not my people. Secondly, you shouldn’t take your pants off, Pete.”

His voice was low and smoky and filled with something that raised gooseflesh, he looked at Clark and for a moment, he was frightened ---the boy actually looked dangerous.

Clark blinked and was Clark again. “Stop trying to hurt me because you got hurt. I want to help. You can push me away, scream and curse at me and it’s still going to be the same. I’ll help. That’s my life, that’s what I’m here for. Whether you want it or not.”

Pete stepped back and was hiking his pants back up, feeling stupid. The after effects of so much huge anger draining away left him weak and suddenly Clark was right there, his huge hands over his, keeping him from snapping shut his jeans, his hands were hot.  
“Don’t…”

Pete tried to tell him he wasn’t interested in white boys, that they didn’t do a thing for him, but Clark’s tongue was doing things, warm slick things, it seemed his mouth didn’t mind if a white boy was sucking on his lip, making him moan. Teeth grazed his lip over and over exactly like he liked it, and then were on his neck, hard and soft, just like he liked it. His hands were big enough to fit around his waist and squeeze and that was something he didn’t know he liked. In the middle of a whole lot of noise brought on by biting Clark ‘s throat really pretty god damn hard, and slamming him against the wall hard enough to knock an ugly ass piece of shit painting to the floor, it occurred to him to lock the door. He used hips to urge Clark over to the door and by the time they got there he was hard enough to explode, and what Clark had in those jeans felt as big as Clark's hands promised.

They moved harder and harder against each other, and Pete started to laugh, he felt like he was fifteen in the locker room again, so desperate to get off and not get caught…Clark had a hand around his dick and laughter was suddenly the last thing on his mind—it felt so good, just right, tight enough, fast enough…he was on his toes pushing into Clark’s big fist, his eyes were almost closed and he was reaching for it, reaching for it—until a finger went into places it had no business going---“Hey! Stop!”

Clark opened his eyes, looking confused, “What?” And blushed, “Oh. You don’t do that. But it feels good, really--”

“That’s not my thing, okay? I fuck, I’m going to fuck you Clark. Understand?”

Clark turned even redder, and Pete watched the wave of red stain him from cheek to navel and he nodded, “Yes, that’s my…thing,” he said with a little grin and Pete nodded.

“Good. Settled.” He pulled Clark back to the bed, laid him flat on the god awful lumpy mattress. 'It’s okay' the back of his brain said, 'He lives in a dorm, this probably feels like home'….

He searched around under the bed and pulled out a tub of Vaseline, and spread a finger full over his palm. He reached down for Clark’s dick, and began stroking, slow deep strokes, the kid was huge and he had to say, his dick was pretty. It felt good in his hand, big and hot, so smooth over steel hardness, the slip of skin under his palm felt good. He watched the head of the boy’s dick rise and sink in the circle of his fist, watched pre-come pearl up at the slit and loved the noises he made, the way he squirmed. Damn, Clark made the beat up crappy twin and the ancient dingy sheets look like finest linen on a pharaoh’s couch. He was that hot, hot as hell. Damn, he was one sexy motherfucker, that much was sure.

Clark was gasping and begging him to stop and that was so novel for Pete to hear that he did. “What?”

“Change places.”

Pete started to argue and then figured—okay, why not? He laid down and smirked up at Kent, who was so gone he looked high as a kite. ‘Yeah, I have that effect.’ He grinned and lifted his hips so Clark could work his jeans and boxers down and then—he stopped—

“What’s the matter?" Pete asked. He looked down and Kent was staring at him like he was seeing something he’d never seen before in his life. “What, didn’t think I’d be black all over?” He started to get up, mad as hell already and Clark pushed him down. “Oof! Damn it--”

“You’re beautiful.” he said, closer to his dick now and warm breath caressed him, long fingers smoothed his hair away from the root and kissed him there. “Beautiful,” and his tongue worked the same magic on the head of his dick as it had in his mouth. God, he was so good, that Lex was a perfect asshole, he’d never---ah!--let this kid---ah—out of his sight….Clark worked the skin back, and slid it up over the head, held it there and slid his tongue around under the skin and Pete yelled, “whoa! Stop, stop…wait a minute.”

He was panting when Clark moved off his dick and lower, licked his balls. He liked it, liked it when those hands wrapped around his whole ass and pulled him up, his balls were in his mouth, wet and warm and he could feel a little saliva leak out around them and then his tongue was working back, back and slipped into his hole.

“Stop! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Um…getting ready to rim you?”

“No! Damn, that’s nasty! That’s just…nasty. What is wrong with you?”

“What? It’s no big deal, really, I mean it’s nice; you’ll like it--if you let me.”

Pete shook his head, “Unh-unh. Boy, it’s true, ya’ll are freaky.” He looked at Clark speculatively. “They do say white boys will eat pussy before they’ll fuck…is that true? Cause that other thing--”he gestured towards Clark’s dick, “Sure isn’t. Damn, nothing small about you…”

Clark sat back on his heels, his eyebrows nearly in his hairline. “Eat pu--how the heck should I know? I’ve never asked, and I’ve never. Been with a girl. Lay back. And thank you—I see it’s true what they say about colored guys, too.” He grinned, pushed Pete to his back and Pete laughed. He was amazed…he’d never laughed in bed before, not like this. It felt damn good.

“Really, you never been with--hey! Didn’t I say no?” Clark wrapped his hands around his legs and pushed them back and started kissing him all around—there. It was weird but…weird. And suddenly it wasn’t so weird, it was getting…Pete groaned, “Oh god, don’t you ever tell,” and Clark laughed against the tender skin and the buzz made him groan again. “You like doing this, don’t you,” and another amused buzz made his nerves flame, "Okay really, Clark—stop, I want to fuck you—"

Clark pulled back and took Pete’s hand and pulled him to his shaky feet, laid down. Pete tried to turn him to his stomach but he said. “Please, face to face.”

“Okay,” Pete said, startled and a wave of warmth swept him. “Okay.”

Pushing into Clark was like pushing into a furnace, he never felt anyone so hot inside before, so slick and tight. For a second his brain sent a little wave to him, hello, isn’t this a little different—and then Clark tightened on him, released and tightened until he wasn’t thinking of anything else but hot and good and fuck you fuck you fuck you. Clark’s eyes were on him the entire time, not once did he look away, he looked almost pained but at the same time beautiful, like a martyr…Pete pushed the thought away. He better be doing this because he wanted to, not out of some sacrifice—his thoughts blew away like fluff, he was going to come, he felt the demand for release twist in him, and somehow his hand was on Clark and he could feel him swell and jerk and the first jet of come splattered against his chest, and Pete yelped as Clark clamped down, again, and he groaned--again and he was nearly howling when he came in Clark’s shuddering body.

 

The first thing Clark said when he was able to was, “I’m in love with Lex.”

Pete looked at him, a little confused as to why he mentioned it. “Yeah…I know.”

“I mean this doesn’t change the fact—I like you a lot Pete, a lot. If things were different…”

Pete said, “They’d have to be a hell of a lot different than they are, Clark.” He reached down, grabbed his pants and yanked them on. “Different in a lot of ways,” he repeated. “Look, I know you love this guy. I’m not about to change your mind. I’m in love with someone too.”. He had to think a second. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not one to worry about that, Clark. I see a pretty face, a nice ass, that’s pretty much all I need.”

Clark looked hurt and Pete was seriously confused. Did he want him to *not* like him?  
“What the fu—Clark. Shit.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and planted his elbows on his knees, took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s the truth, I like you a lot, more than I should. This—will probably screw me up. I’m going to regret this like a fucker but the plain truth is, I want it” ‘You.’

Clark sighed. “Pete, Pete, I love Lex, but I don’t know how much longer I can be with him. He’s killing me.”

Pete tried not to feel his heart soar “Yeah? Well, some guys don’t know what they have…”

“He’s too possessive. He’s…He wants all of me, body and mind and soul. I love him but it’s too much. He wants things from me that.” He stopped and sighed. “Things better not to have. For his sake. But he won’t hear that. You know?” He looked up at Pete, all sad eyes and red swollen lips and Pete felt horrible, the boy was in pain, looking for some measure of comfort no doubt and all Pete could think was how much he wanted to fuck him again. If Clark were his, he wouldn’t make the same mistake that idiot Lex guy was making, that was for damn sure.

 

They spent the rest of the night together; this time just lying in each other’s arms and Pete was astonished at what this boy was making him do. Just lying in bed, close and touching and not even screwing. He smiled into the dark and thought, 'I’ve lost my fucking mind completely—the South has sucked my brain dry, Lord help me.'

* * * *

The days rolled on--partly a slow waltz pulling them into the lives of so many brave people who looked to them for hope--hope of a better life for their children, hope that swelled even if they’d given up any dream for themselves and that made Pete want to keep going—partly a frantic dance on the edge, days of always looking over his shoulder, of trying not to stare into white faces, and now he was afraid for Clark as well as himself. That was something different and surprising. It was quite a strange feeling…to care, to actually worry about someone not family. Wanting to care for them.

Sometimes late at night, when he lay alone in his narrow bed, he hated Lex so much--and when Clark was in it with him, he hated Lex even more. Lex Luthor, ruthless businessman, millionaire, playboy, at least as far as the rest of the world knew…and Clark, waiting at the backdoor, ready to be let in when it was possible for them to snatch moments together.

Pete sighed, and leaned against the car door—and it wouldn’t be any damn different for him and Clark, only he had even less to give him. He needed to stop wracking his brains thinking about this tangled mess and concentrate on what was ahead of them today.

Nate cut his eyes at him. “What’s up Pete? You been strange lately, brother. Something goin’ on? Some girl got you wound up? You want to watch these sisters down here, blood, they not like girls up North. They want rings and babies here,” Nate laughed.

Pete tried to smile. “Nah, it’s not like that Nate, no problem. I’m just tired.”

Clark spoke up in an obnoxiously cheerful voice from the back seat, “You should get some rest Pete. Stop keeping late hours.” Pete grinned and looked up to try and catch his eye in the rear view mirror, but it was Glasses staring at him, staring damn hard. Pete looked down and frowned. He didn’t much like the look he was getting, what the hell was up with Glasses?

* * * *

The next morning after breakfast, Pete caught sight of Glasses and Clark talking seriously and Clark gestured a lot, his body bowed a little toward Glasses who was shaking his head. He saw Pete looking and waved, a brief chop of his hand and walked off. Clark stood there, head still bowed and Pete walked over as casually as he could.

“What’s the word, Kent? Something wrong with Glass—Logan?”

“Oh, no, he was just asking me something about the trip back--”

“Clark, man. It’s me. What’s going on?”

“God. He told me I was spending too much time with you. That it wasn’t right.” He looked into Pete’s face. “That people would start to notice—maybe start to talk…”

Pete felt a frown twist his face, took a deep breath and tried to appear calm. “He doesn’t want us to be friends? Because I’m colored?”

Clark looked surprised. “No!” He sighed. “No. Because he knows. About me.”

“Oh,” Pete said. “Oh! Fuck.” If he knew about Clark and he was warning him, that meant he knew about him, too. His heartbeat quickened

“You’re upset.”

“Well, yeah I am a little, Clark.” Was Logan in the life or was he going to be a problem? _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

 

They trudged along, side by side in the dust on the roadside. They stepped in and out of the shade of trees flanking the dirt road that ran to the little school where grades one to twelve shared rooms. Clark was due to tutor older kids in math and Pete was helping in the reading program.

Along the way, Clark explained to Pete that Logan was his roommate at MetU, that he was just a good guy concerned about his well-being, if maybe a little too concerned. Logan thought Clark was naïve, defenseless. Clark found that annoying considering back home, Logan could barely remember to eat without Clark reminding him. Pete kept his opinion on that to himself. Logan only knew that Clark was homosexual, nothing else. He knew he had a lover somewhere in the state of Kansas, but not who. No one except Pete knew who he was.

Pete nodded. “Okay. He’s right, you know. We should be careful—you’ll be just as dead shot for a fag as a freedom fighter.”

Clark wrinkled his nose and looked sour. “Pete—I wish you wouldn’t--”

A car horn blared behind them and Pete jumped. Clark had a steadying hand on his arm, as if he'd known the car was right behind them—Pete had been so engrossed he hadn’t noticed. The windows on the car were rolled down, and it seemed like a dozen white faces, red and twisted in hate were hanging from the windows. They were hooting and yelling. “Get out, nigger! Get out of town—Gone kill you boy!”

Clark turned to the car and a green soda bottle flew out of the car, slammed into Clark and Pete jumped a foot when it smashed into pieces against his chest—the car sped off, raucous laughter trailing behind them—“we’re gonna get you nigger--”

Clark stood on the side of the road, his chest soaking wet and dripping.

“Are you cut! Are you bleeding? Those fuckers!”

“I’m okay—damn it!—piss! The bottle was full of piss!”

Pete jerked to a stop in his tracks; hands he’d reached out to Clark were snatched back to his sides. His gut rolled and then—Clark started laughing.

“Clark—it’s not funny! Those redneck ofays pissed on you, what the fuck are you laughing about!”

“Pete—I thought it was gasoline—I—I pictured myself—you—on fire. But it’s just...pee-pee.” He laughed again, a little high and unnatural but Pete didn’t notice—he was too furious.

“Mother FUCK. Clark! It’s not funny, god damn it.” Pete shook all over in fury and stalked away, moving ahead of Clark, towards the school. Nobody was hurt, no one was bruised or bleeding and they had work waiting for them.

Clark caught up to Pete, holding his shirt away from his skin and no longer laughing. “Pete, can’t you understand that you just give them more power when you react with anger to something as stupid as that? It’s not important, it’s disgusting yes, and stupid, but it doesn’t hurt, Pete.”

“How can you say that Clark? You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”

“I think I do Pete, better than you can imagine. Really.”

“Clark, until you wake up in the morning thinking, God damn, I hope I live through the day, please God, let me live like a man today--until you’ve had to spend half a day looking for a place to—to—take a damn piss--than no, you sure as fuck don’t know what it’s like. *Really*.”

Clark looked over at Pete and said quietly, “I’m in Mississippi, Pete. I could be home, but I’m here.”

Pete didn’t speak again and neither did Clark.

 

They were in the school and Pete made Clark go straight to the lavatory and helped take his shirt off, he dropped the soggy mess on the floor. He grabbed the towel hanging there for the children to dry their hands and wet it in a sink, used it to scrub Clark down.

He pulled off his own shirt and gave Clark his undershirt. He bent down and rolled the ruined shirt into the dingy towel, looked at the ball of material in his hands and hesitated, looked at Clark. Clark made a face and Pete nodded and tossed all of it into the wastebasket there. Shit, it was just a shirt, Lex could buy Clark a hundred more like it, Pete thought and cursed himself for being a fool.

“It’s going to be awfully tight, but that’s the best we can do—good thing they didn’t get your pants…” He brushed his hand over the waistline of the jeans, looked at Clark in the tight white undershirt, ate him up with his eyes.

Clark blushed and smiled and then the smile leaked away as they stepped apart. “I’m sorry Pete. I’m so damn sorry.”

“Don’t, man. It’s going to be better. It will.”

“*We’ll* make it better Pete. We will.”

Pete nodded and wished desperately that he could hug and kiss him now, that he didn’t have to wait until dark.

* * * *

The long summer was coming to an end, and suddenly it seemed too damn short and the days were passing too damn fast. Pete and Clark had to force themselves not to spend every single minute together. At night they lay in bed, tangled around each other, Pete felt like he was trying to memorize the feel of Clark’s skin, commit every single inch of him to memory. He knew after this summer he’d never see Clark again but if he could remember, no one could take it away from him. Not Luthor, not the world. The Clark in his dreams would never change, never grow older and would want him always. He’d never fly away.

Clark lay with his head on Pete’s chest so often, eyes closed and such a look of concentration on his face, that Pete swore that he was trying to memorize his heartbeat. Clark laughed when he mentioned it and kissed Pete on the head. “Sure Pete, I want to be able to pick you out of a crowd if I have to.”

Pete grinned. “Ya’ll are crazy. I knew it, but I went for you anyway.”

Some nights, Clark told Pete how he planned to leave Lex, that they had gone as far as they could go in their relationship. Pete nodded and smiled and murmured encouragement and didn’t believe a word of it. Clark might convince himself but Pete knew better. Lex was under Clark’s skin, in his body and his blood. It was okay. They would part—he’d go back to New York, and Clark would go back to Kansas and bald millionaires and that was that and the way it was. Only when Clark wasn’t there did he grit his teeth and punch his pillow until the urge to cry passed.

* * * *

A few days before they were to leave, Nate came to pick them up for a farewell service at the church.

Nate was turned out and looking damn good, Pete told him and he paid the compliment back, and gave one to Clark. “Damn, boy, look how clean you are.” Nate marveled. “I never seen you lookin’ that good.”

They were piling into the big front seat of the Buick together and Clark blushed a little. “It’s a special night, Nate,” and he moved a little closer to Pete, close enough that their elbows bumped and they were pressed thigh to thigh. Nate looked thoughtful. “Yeah? I guess it is. I guess we’re gonna miss the hell out of you, both ya’ll. Well, come on now, we can’t be late. Where’s Glasses, Pete? I mean Logan,” he said, glancing at Clark.

“He doesn’t feel good. We’ll check on him later, bring him some dinner or something,” Pete said, and Nate nodded, put the car in gear and they rode out.

 

They were driving slowly down the gravel-paved road that led to the church, slower still because of a car almost creeping along in front of them. As they drove past a little row of houses, Nate beeped his horn at his girlfriend’s house and Clark glanced at Pete. Pete smiled back and figured fuck—let Nate try to kill him—he was holding his boyfriend's hand. Okay, putting it on his thigh and hoping Nate didn’t really see it in the dark.

Nate glanced over, glanced away and did a double take. He looked into Pete’s face and Pete looked back, head up, eyes narrowed, his expression like as a stone—ready for anything. Clark sat quietly, willing to let Pete handle it whatever way he chose.

Nate said, “Folk’s business is their business, they mind theirs and I mind my own. It’s generally worked out good for me, Pete.”

Pete got the message loud and clear. “Fuck Nate,” Pete let out a tension-filled breath in relief, but before he could say more, the sound of a car horn shattered the quiet behind them and headlights lit up the inside of the car. Nate looked up into the rear view mirror. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

The headlights behind them were blinding, Nate smashed the ‘on’ button of the radio in, cutting it off, and the sound of their breath was loud in the car.

“What—“ Clark began, but “Shut the fuck up!” Nate snapped, and slowed in the hope that the car behind them would go around them--if the car behind him slowed along with them, Pete thought, they were probably dead.

It slowed.

“Fuck!” Nate yelled as the car in front of them came to a dead stop and he stood on the brakes and dived for the glove compartment with one hand and shut the car off with the other hand.

“Nigger, are you crazy--”Pete started to yell and there was a loud crack in his ear and a flash of light, glass bits flew around the inside of the car, Pete leaned sideways and looked at Clark.

 

Time slowed to a crawl. Pete thought he could see the bullet hit Clark in the eye, throw his head back and through the passenger window. Glass exploded outward and Pete heard himself scream. ‘I sound like a girl,’ he thought, a crazy bee of a thought that buzzed and flew around his mind, he was still screaming when the gun leveled again, exploded again and he waited to die.

Clark jerked forward, pulled Pete hard against him, held out a hand in a hopeless attempt to shield him. “No, Pete,” he was yelling and the gunshot rang in his ears. His head slammed against Clark’s chest and everything blurred—it was like hitting a wall—was he shot?

Nate was coming up from the glove compartment, a gun in his hand, he began to turn and it took a lifetime for him to pull his eyes from Clark and Pete, disbelief and shock all over his face and _crack._ Pete blinked hard—wet slapped him in the face, and things, bits, pieces… he wasn’t screaming now because he couldn’t find the air to….

Clark slammed the door behind him with his elbow and it tore off its hinges, the screech of tearing metal was so loud that the man with the gun turned and ran. Pete felt himself flying backward out of the car; he hit the ground and rolled down the embankment. He heard a high-pitched scream, and then the sound of cars tearing off down the road.

He scrambled back up on the roadway and saw Clark in the middle of the road standing over a still form. He was crying. “No no no—I didn’t mean to,” he turned to Pete and held up his bloody hands “Pete. I think I killed him, oh god.”

The only sound he heard after Clark’s tortured words was the ticking of Nate’s car, the engine cooling in the night air. _Nate’s dead. Nate’s dead_ \--Clark looked like some avenging Nordic god in the headlights, tears streaming down his face and blood was everywhere. Pete realized that his shirt was warm and wet, he looked down and saw _‘Nate. Brain. Blood’_ —

 

He couldn’t remember when he’d last thrown up like this, not since he was a baby and his gut lurched up into his throat again. Under the noise crawling up his own throat, he could just make out a low moan, the noise almost drowned out by the weird keening Clark was making.

“Shut up, for God’s sake, Clark,” he gasped and he heard it again. Clark dropped to his knees.

“I thought—I killed him but he’s still alive, Pete, he’s alive--”

Pete answered calmly, “If we don’t get the fuck out of Mississippi now, *we’ll* be dead. Deader than Nate ‘cause it’ll take us days to die…” He sat back and wiped his mouth. “Clark. What the fuck happened?” His nostrils flared, blood and vomit made his stomach turn again but something else had happened, something way outside of normal. Pete started to laugh hysterically—normal--what the fuck was normal about any of this—“Nate’s dead!” he shouted at Clark, “why aren’t we?”

Clark rubbed the bluish swollen spot over his eye. He opened his hand and something hit the dust with a plop, like a fat raindrop—a flattened slug. “…I had to save you.”

“What the fuck are you Clark,” Pete whispered and suddenly everything around him blurred, hot wind tore at him, ripped at him with burning claws and then he was pressed against his motel door.

“I’m a monster, Pete. You can’t imagine what I am.” And he was gone.  
Gone.

Pete dropped to the concrete and shivered, cold right to the marrow. 'God, I think I fucked a--a—devil. An angel. Nate’s dead. Clark is—' He staggered to his feet and leaned against the door. 'God, what the fuck is wrong with me—he’s not human, and I don’t even care.' He rubbed his hands over his face. "Fuck me."

 

He wandered inside and ripped his clothes off and dropped them to floor. 'I love Clark—he’s not human…I’m in love with him, it doesn’t matter…' He ran hot water into the sink and grabbed the threadbare towel hanging there and started scrubbing frantically. But Clark left him. Clark left him there and ran.

The towel was red, he dropped it and grabbed a t-shirt and scrubbed and scrubbed and Clark left him.

He picked up the soaking towel and rinsed, rinsed, rinsed until it was nearly clean. He grit his teeth and pushed bits of matter down the sink drain. Tears rolled down his face and he wiped his eyes, his running nose. How much time did he have? He dressed in clean clothes and rolled up the ruined clothes in the towel—fuck it, this motel just lost a mother-fucking towel…he stood with the ball of material in his arms, the weight of the wet fabric triggering something in him. He saw Clark’s tear-tracked face again and again, calling his name—and he left him. He left him and was gone.

A knock at his door brought him out of his stupor; he jerked towards the sound and dashed to the door. "Yes?" He said cautiously and looked around for something, anything to defend himself with and then…laughed. What the fuck, he was a dead man no matter what. He opened the door and the pastor and a few men from the church were there, the SNNC coordinator and some people he didn’t recognize—and Glasses.

 

They came in and held a conference in hushed voices and Pete got the message, 'load your car, don’t wait, and hit the road boy.' They gave him some money and hugged him and slapped his back and offered him sympathy. “We know you and Nate got close, son,” one of the men said. “We’ll take proper care of him.”

Pete nodded and tears started to run again as a quick prayer went over his head and then they were gone and he was alone. He felt like he’d always be alone from now on because he knew something maybe no one else in the world knew—Clark was more than human. He’d gotten that ‘thing’ that Luthor wanted.

Fuck—he’d never even asked for it.

Glasses came back slowly into the room, hesitantly, as if he were unsure of his welcome now that the others were gone. He looked like he’d been crying.

“Pete…I…I should have been with you. I should have been there.”

“Man, you didn’t know. We didn’t know what was going to happen.”

Glasses nodded and swallowed, and after a moment asked, “Where’s—what happened to Clark?” He looked at Pete and his eyes were deep wells of pain. “I promised his mom and dad I’d look out for him.”

For a second Pete wanted to laugh, Glasses was as thick as a toothpick and probably about as strong—and he really thought *he* was looking out for Clark. It was laughable and sweet and heart breaking at the same time. “Swear to god, man, Logan--he’s okay. He took the bus—he’ll…” Pete mentally grabbed at straws, blurted something Glasses might buy. “He’ll meet you back at MetU. He thought it was better to leave tonight.” Something like that anyway. Why should he have to know Clark ran and left both of them here alone?

“Go on, man, go to sleep. Tomorrow it’ll all be over.”

Logan pushed the fucking ugly glasses back up his nose. “I’m sorry Pete, I’m really am.”  
He looked like he wanted to say more and Pete put his hand on his terribly thin shoulder and gently steered him towards the door. “Good night, Logan.”

* * * *

_Fuck this, he thought. He stood and grabbed his bag from the alcove struggling to be a closet, stuffed whatever was his into it like he hated it. He pulled jeans on and shrugged into a cotton shirt. He cursed low and steadily as he buttoned it. It hung from him, it was too damn big, it smelled like sun dried cotton and grass, it wasn’t his, he hated it and he couldn’t take it off again…._

_He was drowning in tears he wouldn’t shed._

_He pulled the venetian blinds apart, and looked out into the carport. The moon fought to illuminate what the single bulb couldn’t…his car sat in the lot like a thing waiting to break free of invisible chains, like it couldn’t wait to get out from under the weight of Mississippi air._

_He wanted to scream—he had to leave now, right now, get out of here right the fucking hell now—_

_He found himself standing out of the door and panting like all the devils in the world and hell were on his tail. For as long as it took him to settle his bill and get in gear was as long as the last few minutes he spent in Harmony Mississippi._

_He flew down the back roads, he held the pedal flat to the floorboards, wind shrieked through the windows. His heart was in his throat, his eyes darted all over, surely the hammer of God was about to smash through the roof of his car—he was going to die out here, die—later he’d swear before God—he didn’t blink one fucking time 'til he crossed the state line._

 

**New York**

Pete had to adjust to life back home; he had to lie a lot about what happened to him. To Ma, he lied about the whole time, “Wasn’t as bad as they make out Ma, bad—but not that bad. We were careful all the time. We? My friend--a white boy, Ma. From Kansas. Yeah, he was a nice guy,” he lied so easily to her, the truth separated him from her, and lies were a gulf that grew wider and wider daily. It made him feel sad and lonely. Talking to her made him feel adrift.

 

Talking to Pop was a little different; he didn’t need to hide quite as much. Pop got the bare bones of the story of that night on the road. He didn’t need to say much. Pop read his eyes and knew. He filled in the blanks and Pete was grateful—he lied about the important part of it because he’d made a vow, even if he’d never been asked to, it didn’t matter. Some things you just did for love.

Right down to pretending there was no love.

He’d gone down South and lived through probably the worst summer of his life, the worst time of his life--but it was the best time too. He’d learned things he’d never have learned home—he found out who he was. And it was worse than he’d thought, and better. He thought that he’d become the kind of man his pop could be proud of. He hoped so.

 

Life settled back into a familiar groove…school, home, job, sometimes a date, most times a pretty quick and anonymous fuck…and he only thought of Kent at odd moments, like when he saw that Luthor cat’s picture in the paper, smiling and smooth, too fucking sleek and handsome for Pete ever to like him, rich and privileged and fucking his Clark—the bastard.

* * * *

He was pretty damn tired of exams and sweating and nerves, he needed a break and he was really looking forward to heading into the city with Ralph for lunch and maybe some window-shopping. Ma’s birthday was coming up and Ralph had pretty good taste, better than his anyways. He headed out to the quad to wait for him and planted his butt on the wall by the walkway. The stand of birch saplings behind him threw long thin shadows over him, striped the sidewalk. There were birds loud and busy in the trees, building nests and squabbling with each other. Pete glanced back and shook his head. Just like people, fighting over nothing.

He looked up and down the sidewalk and figured he might as well get comfortable; he’d have a nice long wait, no doubt. Ralph hadn’t been on time to anything in his life. He pulled out a folded square of newspaper from his back pocket, soft from multiple readings.

There on the square torn from the society page was a small picture of Lex smiling at the cameras, his arm wrapped around a long legged brunette. Her hair was swept up and exposing her long neck, its slenderness was accented by a huge rock around her neck, and even in the small picture he could see the diamonds at her ears were a matching pair to the necklace. Lex was generous, he thought. Or maybe the stones were payment to look the other way--the caption on the photo announced his engagement. “Millionaire Alexander 'Lex' Luthor announced his engagement to Dr. Helen Bryce. The announcement was made at his father’s annual charity ball to benefit Metropolis Children’s Hospital Sunday evening.”

He studied the picture, had been studying it for days, looking for something, looking for some sign of regret, of pain. Every time he looked at Lex’s smile, he saw Clark bloody and terrified and wild with guilt on a dark road.

Pete looked up and searched the crowd of student’s for Ralph, starting to get a little impatient. He carefully folded his little square of newsprint. Enough kicking his own ass for the day. He got up and someone poked him in the back. “Where the hell have you been??" he snapped as he turned to look behind.

“Trying to pick your heartbeat out of a crowd,” Clark smiled.

Pete staggered to his feet. “Clark…fuck…Clark…” Pete couldn’t go on, his throat closed up and he could only stare.

Clark ‘s expression shifted from happy to concerned to worry. “Is it okay? Do you want me to leave, I can.”

“Hell, no. Don’t you dare leave again.”

Clark’s eyes darkened with guilt and he dropped his eyes away from Pete’s. “I know I have no right to talk to talk to you after what I did Pete.”

“Don’t be stupid Clark. You did what you had to. I know you have…things… you can’t share. I forgave you pretty damn quick.” Looking at Clark he could see he hadn’t forgiven himself, Pete sensed he probably never would. “Clark, I know about Lex…”

Clark shut down. ”He’s doing what he has to. What he thinks he has to. I can’t stay there, I can’t live like that.” He looked into Pete’s eyes. “I can’t be that person, Pete.”

He nodded. “I know you can’t, Clark.” He reached out and took Clark’s hand to shake, so casual a move, two friends meeting on a beautiful bright spring morning, glad for the day, and nothing more.

Pete’s mouth went dry and he had to fight down a groan just at the brief touch of Clark’s hot, marble smooth skin. Behind him, birds burst out of the shadows of the young birches; they wheeled up and passed over them as they flew away.

They watched them go and Clark smiled again, puppy teeth and bright green eyes. “Remind me to tell you…everything, Pete.” His smile dimmed when he looked at Pete again. “What I said before still stands Pete. Last summer was important but…”

Pete nodded. Clark was asking him—telling him-- that Pete would be that person Clark didn’t want to be. He looked up, straight into the sun and then, closed his eyes. “Okay.” He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll take it.” Hoped the joy would outweigh what he knew he’d lose in the end.

 

1-29-2006


End file.
